Sky turns orange-red.
As the Earth rotates,
pushing the sun down,
Beyond the line of sight.
The sky turn black,
littered with shining, blinking lights,
Millions of years old.
Two-legged creatures.
Some roam the paths of
synthetic habitats made of stones,
To reach places of their desire.
Some seated on four-legged objects,
Consuming savoury food with their metal tools,
nourishing their stomachs and souls
while they communicate with their fellows
Of their so-called bad and good days.
Elsewhere, deep in those dark woods,
four-legged creatures,
Scrambles for home,
Hide from ravenous consumers.
Some creatures hunt with their special abilities,
For they are kings and queens of the sky.
Six-legged creatures make sounds,
To attract attention of their fellows,
For joyous yet painful rounds of propagation,
Ignorant of their imminent deaths by flying mammals.
Bran's World 